


Winter Stole Summer's Thrill

by nesrynfaliq



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: ACOWAR, Angst, F/M, Prompt Fill, bit of a departure from tradition, elain is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 14:03:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10664148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nesrynfaliq/pseuds/nesrynfaliq
Summary: Prompt: “Remember when you promised we’d always be together? Because I remember when I thought you meant it.” Pain to follow. Elain’s POV.‘She was going to hold him to that promise he had made to her, those words he had whispered the night before he had left. They had lain in bed together, naked, spent, their arms around one another, their chests heaving in time as they panted for breath, and he had whispered those words to her. “We will always be together, Elain. Always.”She had fallen asleep with those words warming her heart. She had let him walk onto that battlefield with them ringing in her ears. They were the last words he had ever spoken to her and by the Mother and the Cauldron and whatever other forgotten gods stalk the heavens and play with the lives of men and fae alike, she will hold him to them.’





	Winter Stole Summer's Thrill

**Author's Note:**

> Have more unplanned, unedited garbage. Enjoy.

His hand is cold in hers. The room is quiet, unusually so. Even when they had lain together here in the mornings there had always been the soft sounds of birds singing outside, the breeze wafting through the trees, the servants padding quietly up and down the halls. 

The silence now seems an omen. The windows have all been shut up tight, keeping the room as warm as possible. The birds and the breeze are exiled from this place of cold death and dark shadows. They belong to the world beyond, full of life and colour and hope, not here in this place. Elain has the urge to run to the windows, to throw them open, let the sun and the sounds of this place fill the room, lift her out of the dead feeling that’s sunk its claws into her heart. 

She doesn’t though, can’t bring herself to leave his side. The servants have all been sent away. There is only her and him, a few others who come and go. But this manor is big and they are far away, their footsteps and voices not managing to echo this far through the empty corridors to break up the quiet. 

When she speaks, her voice sounds too loud, intrusive and imposing, like a sudden rumble of thunder on a warm spring day. “Remember,” she whispers to him, “Remember when you promised me that we’d always be together?” A single tear slips down her cheek. The taste of salt is like an explosion on her tongue, ripping her from the bland, empty oasis she’s been stranded in since it happened. 

Another tear but she brushes this one away with her free hand. She shouldn’t cry in front of him, that would upset him. What would he think if he woke and found her cry at his side? She has to be strong for him. She  _will_  be strong for him. 

But she can’t help the words that fall from her lips, spilling out of her along with a fresh wave of tears she can’t hold back no matter how hard she tries. “Because I remember when I thought you meant it, when I was sure that nothing could ever take you from me; or me from you.” They’re the words of a child, that human girl she had been so long ago that’s been broken by the things that she’s seen, the things she’s endured, the things that she’s done. 

The next words are a plea, desperate and shattered, “My mate, my mate, my  _mate_...”

They had sealed the bond two years ago. In the middle of a war but neither of them had cared about that. It was right. It was real. She had found him again on a battlefield, on two different sides of this war. She should never have been there, but they had needed everyone to fight they could and she had refused to sit safely at home alone while everyone else went out to do what they could. 

She had regretted it from the first charge. The blood. The chaos. The death. She had never been able to stand the sight of blood or gore. Even after years of living with it, the sight of Feyre cleaning and dressing a kill in their kitchen had made her feel sick. This had been a hundred times worse than that. People screaming and crying and dying and killing all around her, and she caught in the thick of it, like a doe with a shattered leg in the eye of a storm. 

Then he had been there. A blade in either hand. His red hair flying around him like fire. Fire itself bursting from him, for the first time in centuries, to protect her, his mate. They had looked at each other, standing a foot apart, both armed, both spattered in blood and filth and gore, wearing different colours. He in green and gold and she in black and red. 

They had both known what should follow. They had both know that honour, duty, loyalty, love to all those they followed, demanded their next actions. They were to take up arms against one another, fight, hurt, kill. This male...This male had helped drown her and Nesta in that Cauldron, had held Feyre under while Tamlin drowned her in his own selfish trauma after what they’d endured. He was on the other side. He had chosen. She had chosen. She owed him nothing. She didn’t know him, didn’t care about him, didn’t feel anything for him but...

But she had met those mismatched eyes, full of all the pain and terror and sadness she’s come to know so intimately, and she hadn’t been able to do it. Their swords had faltered at the same time, their power dulling, a hurricane turned to a quiet shower of rain in the face of this one they could not hurt. She had taken his arm, had begged him to do something, to rally his forces. They would listen to him, they would follow him, he could end this, end it all. 

He had. They had. 

At least that day, that one battle, they had managed to stop. She had brought him before Feyre and Rhys and he had spoken for Spring, had told them he wanted this pointless slaughter to end. The men they had saved that day had simply died the next but for that moment...She had seen something in his eyes. She had seen a hatred for this battle and bloodshed that everyone else seemed to accept as inevitable and right. She had seen a desire for peace, for true peace, what she longed for more than anything. She had seen hope. And she had never looked back. 

Still they fight. The first War had raged for seven year, she had been told. This one has lasted five already and everyone involved believes it might easily double that. More and more peoples from across the sea are getting pulled into this, taking sides, summoning armies, dragging this on and on and on, filling the world with death and pain and screams. 

Already she has worn so many faces in this game of chance they play with people’s lives, where the roll of dice sends them to fight, to kill, to die. She’s been a victim; fresh from the Cauldron, in shock, in pain, with nothing left but her skin and her sisters.

 A hope. Her powers could change this war, could give them an edge, but she doesn’t want to fight, doesn’t want to hurt, doesn’t want to kill, just wants to hide. 

A  soldier. Despite her feeble protests she had still been trained to fight - just so you can protect yourself- they had told her, but she knew, even then, that protecting herself would come at the cost of harming others and she had hated every second of it.

 A spy. She was his mate, ready made, she could get close, could make him trust her, he would never hurt her, never, never, never.

 A traitor. They knew he wouldn’t hurt her, knew he wouldn’t hurt them, not while they held her. They had never suspected she might turn on them, that her love for a stranger might be more than her lust for war and deceit. They had never suspected that might not be able to hurt him, either. 

A High Lady. The power came to her when Tamlin had fallen and Lucien had smiled and sworn his blade to Spring once more. To her. She had allied them again with Night, with her fierce sisters who found ways to thrive in this war while she felt sometimes she was barely surviving it. She and Lucien had fought and strived, turned former enemies to allies; turned former friends to dust and ash.

But now...

A widow. 

No.  _No_ , she won’t lose him, she can’t lose him. Not now. Not after everything they’ve been through. She loves him. She needs him. She won’t let him die, she won’t. Not while she still draws breath will she let him leave her. 

She had thought this war had numbed her to pain, to death, to suffering. She had thought that she had seen it all, felt it all, that nothing would ever cause that childish panic to rise in her chest again as it had before at the sight of a few drops of blood. 

Then they had brought her mate to her that day, nearly a week back, covered in blood, pale as death, torn open and unconscious, halfway into the arms of the other world. She had screamed then. She had fallen to her knees and she had screamed until all the world knew of her pain, her grief, her  _rage_. 

She had not been with him. She should have, she should have, she should have. She’s still cursing herself for that, if she had she could have helped him, could have protected him. Her mate had known how much she hated the battlefield, what it did to her to be on it, to use her powers there. He had softly kissed her forehead and told her no, no  more. He would lead their armies, their people, she was too important to risk, to lose. Too important to their court...Too important to him.

Selfish and cowardly, as a part of her had always been deep down, buried beneath the naivety and the softness, she had let him go. She had let her mate go alone into battle while she remained safe here. And now...And now... 

He should have died, they had told her. The wound he had taken should have been fatal, he should have died on that battlefield and been borne back to them on the oaken shields of his men. Somehow he had lived. Somehow he had summoned the strength to winnow back here, to his love, still breathing when he arrived, still fighting. 

The healers remained baffled at his endurance, at his survival, but Elain understood. Her mate had spent his life surviving and enduring things that would have destroyed other people. And that had been while hopeless, tortured and alone. Now he had something to fight for. He had this court, this people, this peace they were trying to build. And her. He had her. He would fight for her, would cling to this world through pain and against all odds for her. 

She was going to hold him to that promise he had made to her, those words he had whispered the night before he had left. They had lain in bed together, naked, spent, their arms around one another, their chests heaving in time as they panted for breath, and he had whispered those words to her. “We will always be together, Elain. Always.” 

She had fallen asleep with those words warming her heart. She had let him walk onto that battlefield with them ringing in her ears. They were the last words he had ever spoken to her and by the Mother and the Cauldron and whatever other forgotten gods stalk the heavens and play with the lives of men and fae alike, she will hold him to them. 

Elain looks down at him, still ashen faced, perfectly still upon the blankets, dotted here and there with small drops of blood, like the little red berries that had fallen on the fresh snow around their cottage in the mortal realm. His chest rises and falls, his breathing ragged and laboured, but still it comes. She has to force herself not to press her hand over his heart, to be sure that it’s still beating. 

It’s a habit she’s fallen in to. She hasn’t left his side since they brought him to her. Every night she’s sat awake, chewing on various herbs and plants to keep her awake and alert part the point of wisdom. She had only stopped when Feyre had come to her, four days after they’d brought him here, and quietly begged her to sleep a little. She had assured her that Lucien wouldn’t die, not now, he had clung on so long, and she had to take care of herself too. For his sake, if nothing else. 

She had loved her sister for understanding, for knowing not to try and coax her with talk of the war effort, or her court. Her mate was the most important thing to her now. Feyre had known that. She had crawled up onto the bed beside him, had only been able to calm enough for sleep by resting her head on his chest, listening to his heart beating in a steady rhythm until it had lulled her to sleep, as it had done so many nights before with his arms around her. 

Looking down at him now, Elain wishes yet again that she could heal him, that the gifts they had all expected had actually come to her. When she and Nesta had climbed out of the Cauldron and out of the pit that being killed and remade within its depths had shoved them into, they had been told it had given them magic. 

The Night Court had waited with baited breath, to see what the sisters would be able to do. None had said it but all had expected Nesta’s powers to be of the most use to them in the war. They had said, though they weren’t sure, this process only having been done a few scattered times in history, that their abilities would match their personalities, their skills. 

Sure enough that fire that had been burning inside her elder sister from the day she was born, stoked into an inferno that had been caged in her bones after the death of their mother and the fall of their house, had erupted into life just days after her Making. 

Elain’s had taken longer to show itself. They had expected, naturally, that she would have some control over plants, perhaps the earth itself, they had encouraged her to practice, to garden as she had but she felt no change. They had wondered then if perhaps healing would be her gift, had apprenticed her to some fae healers, had her assist them. All that had happened was that the sight of blood had made her feel sick.

In the end, neither power had come to her. Elain had been a gentle grower of things, a nurturer, a creator. And then she had died. She had died and been reborn and the Cauldron had twisted her desire to give life in the same way. The Cauldron had not given her a gift of life, the ability to create, to grow the earth beneath her at will. The Cauldron had given her a gift of death. All that grows now at Elain’s urging are the dead. 

She still has nightmares about the first time she had used her ability on the battlefield. She had been reluctant to practice, reluctant to train, reluctant to indulge the monster she had become. But they had been losing badly, casualties numbering high in the hundreds, a travesty for high fae. Rhys had begged, her, then Cassian, Azriel, even Feyre. Only Nesta had told her that the choice was hers, that if she couldn’t bring herself to do this they would understand. But Elain had seen the look in her sister’s eyes, had seen the panic there, the fear of losing her mate, her family. 

Elain had acted. She had walked onto the field alone, the three Illyrians circling overhead, guarding her, as the world stood still to watch her walk into their midst. Her allies had gasped, had lunged for her, to drag her from the field, to protect her, to get her away. The enemy had jeered, laughed, sneered. What could this little girl, this fragile doll, do to harm them? Neither of them had understood. Neither of them had known that this place, this place full of despair and agony and death. This place was now hers. 

She had lifted her hands slowly, carefully, from her sides. And the dead had risen with her. It had been a slaughter. Enemies her foes had left behind them rose up and took revenge on those they had been murdered by. Friends who they had drunk with and laughed with and fought with for hundreds of years tore them to pieces while they begged for mercy. 

They had won the day, but Elain had destroyed herself. She had been left a wreck in the aftermath, shaking, shocked, horrified by what she had done, what this curse of hers had caused. She had not spoken for two weeks following the incident, had refused to let even Nesta in to sit with her and speak with her. When she had finally been able to emerge from her room she had told t hem, softly, voice shaking so violently she was barely coherent, but with a firmness that promised retribution if they ever went against these words, that she would  _never_ do this again. 

None had argued with her. 

Only Lucien had been able to convince her that this ability did not make her a monster. He had taken into the gardens of Spring, had shown her where they had been decimated by a battle they had fought alongside Autumn and their devastating fire. She had walked through the charred ashes and ruins and had cried out in delight when from the bones of despair soft green shots had risen again, small pinpricks of colour and life. 

That had been the first time she had kissed him. She had thrown herself into his arms and embraced him and kissed him and laughed against his lips for the first time in what felt centuries. He had hugged her and laughed as well and kissed her back. 

Then he had taken her to the nearby villages, ravaged by Hybern’s soldiers when they had crossed these lands. The people were starving, terrified, desperate, their animals slaughtered, their crops destroyed. Elain had returned them all to them. She had returned their hope to them. She had found hope and life in destruction and death, all thanks to her mate. 

Lately, since his injury, her nightmares have shown her different things from that first battle. She did not dream of nameless, faceless soldiers rising, wounds still torn into their unfeeling flesh, blood still oozing as their still hearts are forced to beat, to make them rise, make them fight again. Stripped of their chance at peace even in death. 

Now it is him. It is her mate. She dreams of herself alone in this chamber with him. She dreams that his heart finally stops beating, the hoarse sound of his ragged breathing that fills the room halts, and he dies, right in front of her. She dreams that, in her grief, in her panic and despair...She brings him back. She makes him rise again, makes him sit up, drags him back into this world and anguish and agony for her own selfish ends. 

She always wakes when he looks at her. When those mismatched eyes of gold and red are both black and hollow and empty as he stares at her, condemning her, damning her for what she did to him. 

But now, while he still breathes, while he still feebly clutches onto life, she can do nothing. Nothing but sit, and hold his hand, and pray. As powerless as when she had been human. She had never minded it. Feyre and Nesta had both hated it, she knew, that feeling of uselessness, of helplessness, of not being able to do more. She had simply allowed fate to scoop her up and carry her along. Like a little cloud of dust before a breeze. 

Now she knows how they felt, sitting here, holding her mate’s hand, she is not content to leave his life in the cruel, twisted hands of fate. She wants to do something, wants to help him, wants to heal him. All of her friends have tried. Mor and Feyre, with the healing powers she had been given, but both agree there is nothing more they can do. His body has been physically healed, the tears knit back together, the holes patched and closed and mended. There’s nothing they can do to wake him, nothing they can do to bring him back to her. All she can do is wait. Wait and pray and pray and pray. 

What she wouldn’t give to look into those beautiful eyes of his. What she wouldn’t do to hear that rough bark of laughter she had begun to hear more and more of the longer she had spent with him. What she wouldn’t wreck and hurt and destroy just to hear him whisper her name once more...

She should have been there. She should have been on that battlefield and then none would have touched him. She would have made herself into that monster again, she would have embraced the abomination that haunts her dreams, stalks in the dark recesses of her soul, waiting, waiting, waiting for its chance. There is nothing she wouldn’t have done to stop this from happening to him, from keeping him safe. But...But she wasn’t there. She wasn’t with her mate. She was hiding, doing what she did so well. And the failure to learn that lesson might cost her everything she holds dear. 

The urge to be near him, to hold him, to have his arms around her, his lips pressed to her head, promising her everything will be alright, suddenly overwhelms her. 

Elain prises herself from her chair and crawls into the bed. The tears she had cursed at earlier, promised herself wouldn’t fall, are flowing down her cheeks. She can’t do this. She can’t do this. She can’t  _do this_. She can’t lose him. She can’t keep going without him. She can’t, she can’t, she  _can’t_. 

She tucks herself in against his side, feeling small in comparison to him, so much taller and bigger than her. She wraps her arms around his body, lays her head on his chest, right over his heart, listening to it pounding away beneath his ribs. 

“Lucien,” she whispers softly, her fingers stroking gently through his long hair where it spills over his shoulder. Her tears start to dampen his shirt but she doesn’t think he’ll mind. “Lucien please, come back to me, please.” Anger surges in her and she knows it’s not fair, knows it’s irrational and unreasonable but she wants to scream and rant and rage at him. Demand to know how he could do this to her, how he could put her through this, how he ever thought that she would be able to deal with this. 

Instead her tears fall faster, her throat grows even more clogged with her grief and her next words are thick and slurred with emotion, “You promised me,” she whispers to him, a prayer and a damning all at once, “You promised me we would always be together. You  _promised me_.” 

Utterly exhausted after days of not sleeping, barely eating, lulled into it by her mate’s scent, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the feel of him pressed against her that almost  _almost_  convinces her that he’s here with her, holding her, that everything is alright, Elain lets herself sleep. 

She wakes, hours later, the faint rays of sunlight spilling into the room from the small gap between the curtains, catching the gold in her hair and the fire in her mate’s.

 Pushing herself up into a sitting position, rubbing at her eyes, she nearly falls out of bed in shock at the voice that greets her. “Dove,” he rasps, voice scratchy and hoarse, from disuse “My ribs are still rather tender, if you could find somewhere else to stick your elbow, I would very much appreciate i-” 

She cuts him off with a loud squeal, leaning down to pull him into a hug so tight it nearly snaps his newly repaired, still tender ribs. “You bastard,” she sobs into his shoulder, crying even harder when she feels his flicker of amusement at the insult through the bond.  _The bond_  it’s been silent since she lost him, so dead to her not even she could revive it and now, now....”You bastard,” she chokes again, not rising from where she has her face buried against the crook of his neck, “Don’t you ever, ever do that to me again.  _Ever_ ,” she snarls at him threateningly, pushing herself up to look down at him, stroking his hair back from his face so she can see him properly. 

He reaches up, his hand shaking slightly, and rests it on her cheek, “I will never leave you, Elain,” he murmurs softly. His hand drops from her cheek, hooks into the front of her dress, pulls her down and she obliges him, pressing her lips to his and kissing him, unable to stop the tears that are flooding down her face in relief. 

She settles against him after summoning the healers to check on him, ignoring his assurance that he’s perfectly fine and doesn’t need to be fussed over, silencing his further irritated protests with a growl. The healers check him over, shocked that he’s awake and still with them, which makes Lucien entirely too smug as far as she’s concerned, then leaves them in peace, instructing Elain not to overexcite him. 

Obeying their wishes, Elain mixes up a sleeping draught and advances threateningly on him, “You need to rest, Lucien,” she growls at him. 

“I’ve slept for a week, pet, surely-” her snarl is answer enough and he sighs but obediently opens his mouth like a petulant child. She cradles the back of his head with a hand and helps him drink, ignoring the face that he pulls at the taste. 

His eyelids are already drooping again and, much as she’s terrified of him sleeping and never waking again, she knows that he needs this, that it will do him far more harm to stay awake now. 

Elain settles down beside him and feels her hear soar as he clumsily wraps an arm around her, drawing him in closer. She’s missed that, Cauldron how she’s missed that. His jaw bumps against her head in a move she interprets as him trying to press a kiss to it and she smiles. 

Just before he drifts back into sleep she hears him murmur softly in her ear, “I made you a promise, Elain...I will never let myself break it.” 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!! Please leave me a comment if you have a second.


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